


The High Cost of Progress

by HolmesianDeduction



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Combeferre: Designated Responsible Adult, During the barricade, Foreshadowing, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:37:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/pseuds/HolmesianDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they wait out the night in the barricade, Combeferre - as usual - looks out for Enjolras, because no one else can, and the two discuss the potential costs of their ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The High Cost of Progress

             "Enjolras."  Combeferre's voice cut through the semi-darkness, his voice raspy and slightly hoarse from shouting.  "Enjolras."

             Raising his head from where it rested on the stock of his gun, Enjolras managed a weary half-smile and waved the other man over.  His stance never wavered as he watched his friend carefully pick his way up to his perch near the crest of the barricade, but as Combeferre reached him, his posture seemed to relax ever-so-slightly.

              _Or perhaps_ , Combeferre thought with a flash of worry,  _it was a nearly imperceptible buckling._   Wordlessly, he passed Enjolras a bottle, observing the flash of tired gratitude that passed through the blue irises and then was gone as Enjolras turned back to look over the streets.  Sinking to a crouch on the remains of a table, Combeferre rested his chin on his hands for a moment before reaching up to lay a hand on Enjolras' forearm.  "Sit."

             With only some reluctance, Enjolras complied, his back resting against a broken cabinet, and in the dim light, the two men examined each other's faces for a long time before speaking.  Combeferre broke the silence first, and offered the tattered remains of his handkerchief for Enjolras to wipe his face, the dingy white fabric coming away drenched with sweat and a mixture of dirt and dried blood.   _Not his own though,_ Combeferre observed, but didn't mention it, wondering if he would prefer that it were.

             "You seem troubled."  Enjolras didn't respond, and pursing his lips, Combeferre turned to follow the other man's gaze.  Everything was silent and still - almost unsettlingly so, and with the exception of faint shadows moving behind windows and just along the edges of his sight, the streets were less like the Paris that he knew and more akin to the solemnity of the old cemeteries around his childhood home.  Finally, he spoke again, his voice hushed.  "We're truly alone now, aren't we?"

             Enjolras nodded, and for a brief moment, he looked every bit his age; he opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again, leaving the words to rot in the air around them.  Taking the still untouched bottle back from him, Combeferre took a sip from it and glanced back at Enjolras.  "Do you think they realise it?"

             "Of course they do."  Enjolras' reply was curt, but his voice strained.

             As he spoke, Enjolras' back had straightened again, and he looked as though he might stand up, but Combeferre placed a hand on his shoulder and he stayed.  Eventually the muscles beneath Combeferre's hand relaxed again and the same look of indescribable weariness that no one else had been allowed to see swept over him until even his golden curls seemed lank and lifeless where they lay half-plastered to his skin.  Combeferre watched him for a moment, and then spoke, his voice emerging from his throat thick with something approaching doubt, "Enjolras?"

             As if anticipating what he was going to ask, Enjolras leaned forward slightly, slipping his shoulder free in the process.  "Don't say it."

             Combeferre said nothing in response, but the expression on his face was all Enjolras needed to decipher the unspoken question on his lips.  Despite the implications of the words hanging between them, he merely shook his head and leaned on his gun.  After a few moments, he broke the silence.  "What is it that you always say about progress?"

             "It requires time."  Combeferre's voice was weary, and another glance revealed the same fatigue etched on his features.

             "And action, Combeferre."  Levering himself to his feet again, Enjolras' voice mirrored back the same weariness.  "Time _and_ action."

             Lapsing into silence, they remained there for what seemed like an eternity - Enjolras standing at attention, his eyes on the darkness of the streets, Combeferre still perched on the broken table at his side.  It wasn't until the faint echo of Courfeyrac calling for him reached their ears that either of them moved, and even then, nothing was said - merely a light tap on Enjolras' shoulder as Combeferre rose to his feet and an exchange of barely perceivable nods before they parted ways again.


End file.
